Four Years Gone
by noenigma
Summary: An abduction and an investigation set in early season one.
1. Part One: Into the Night

This one is set in the first year after Lewis returns to Oxford when Lewis and Hathaway were still finding their way as a team, and Lewis was still lost in his grief…

**Four Years Gone**

_Part One: Into the Night_

Lewis sighed. Time was he had found the job exciting. Now he found it sad. A call out used to bring with it a thrill of anticipation; now more like a cloud of depression. His age probably didn't help. Perhaps chasing after murderers was a job for the young. Though Morse had managed to hold on to the thrill of the chase up till the end…well, most days anyway. No, Lewis suspected, it wasn't so much his age as his own life that had drained his liking for the job away.

Years before Morse had told him of Chief Inspector McNutt and his wife who had betrayed McNutt by dying. Lewis, in Morse's estimation 'an ignorant, young sergeant' like Morse himself had been back when McNutt had been his chief inspector and secure in his world with Val and the kids safely at home, had murmured, "That happens, you know" without even a shudder of premonition.*

He'd call back those casual, thoughtless words now if he could. McNutt had given up his chief inspectorship, left the job behind, and took up with God. By the very skin of his teeth, Lewis had somehow held onto his inspectorship and the job, but he found no pleasure in either of them anymore. He'd been as proud of his inspector's as he had been of his wife and his kids though he couldn't quite think why anymore. Now though…

"Sir?" his sergeant called to him, pleading with him to take an interest, to get on with the job. He turned to frown at Hathaway. The sergeant had become disillusioned with the priesthood, left God, and came to the force though he'd missed McNutt traveling the opposite direction by several years. He was a capable enough cop, thorough and competent, and Lewis suspected that deep beneath the indifferent surface Hathaway took a great deal of satisfaction from the hunt. The sergeant had the makings for a real detective if someone would nurture it like Morse had in Lewis.

That was up to Lewis. He sighed again. He might have lost his love of the work, but it still needed done. He rubbed a tired hand over his chin and widened his eyes a tiny fraction to acknowledge Hathaway.

"The body's over here, Sir," Hathaway said. He motioned with his head off towards the shadowed back alley.

"Right," Lewis said. With a flap of his hand, he indicated the sergeant should lead the way with his torch. He tried to shake off his apathy as he followed Hathaway's lanky form into the dark alley, but it wasn't going anywhere. The night of December 18 was drawing to a close and tomorrow would mark the anniversary of Val's death. He'd thought not taking the time off might keep the day from disappearing into an alcoholic haze like it had in previous years. She deserved better than him drinking himself into oblivion as though he were hell-bent on forgetting her. And the kids…they weren't any less touched by the day than he was. He should be available to them if they needed to talk, not passed out.

And that was true enough, but it didn't mean he was in any state to be working. The job deserved, required, and demanded more than he had to give. He shouldn't have taken the call, shouldn't have agreed to be the one that stood between the poor, dead soul laid out in the alley and justice. He or she deserved more than a burned out, depressed inspector and an all-but green sergeant.

He, it was apparent when Hathaway slowed to a stop within the circle of emergency lights illuminating the crime scene. Lewis forced himself to squat by the body and take in the details of the battered skull and the torn hands that hadn't been strong or quick enough to stop the fatal blow. The poor sod had seen it coming…Val—she would have seen it too. The car careening towards her…and she would have been even more vulnerable and less about to stop it than this poor bloke.

"Lewis," Dr. Hobson, the pathologist, said in greeting. He avoided her look. There might have been a question there as much as the acknowledgment it was meant to be. She knew the date as well as he did, and if that 'Lewis' carried with it a sympathetic, "Are you all right? Are you going to make it through tomorrow?" he didn't want to hear it or know it.

"Time of death?" he asked in reply and hoped she'd let him get away with it. She vacillated between trying to get him to talk his sorrow out and letting him hold it in…between forcing him to accept what he'd lost and just being there in quiet, unvoiced support. She'd had more than a few things to say when he'd about let everything go that second year after Val's death…in fact, it was probably her persistence more than anything else that had sent him off to the British Virgin Islands. He'd resented it, fought against her, but in the end, she'd been right. The change had done him good. Maybe he should have made it permanent.

Coming home hadn't been easy. Still, he'd thought that he was going to make it…pick up the job, take on young Hathaway, dig in, and get on with life. It had seemed doable in the challenge of the Regan Perverill case and those that followed. That had been before winter set in.

"You're going to have to give me some time here," Hobson told him. "I've only just arrived myself. Traffic was backed up on the way."

He stood and said, "Right then. Tell me when you've something to go on." She frowned up at him, opened her mouth, and then thought better of it. Even if she'd barely had a chance to give the body a once-over, he knew there were things she could have told him. She was good at her job. He couldn't guess if she'd been about to snap at him for presuming otherwise, or if, as he suspected, it had been something else she'd wisely decided to swallow. Not the time or place for it. He could only hope the right time and place wouldn't come around until he'd managed to push back the darkness pressing against him. She, too, deserved more than he had to give her.

The whole bloody world did. His sergeant for starters. He turned from the pathologist to glare at Hathaway and demand, "Have you any more to tell me than Hobson here, Sergeant? Or have you, too, only just arrived?" He could count on one hand the times he hadn't beaten Morse to the scene to put together a quick report before the chief inspector arrived. Leave and late sitters, family celebrations and sickness, backed-up traffic—nothing had ever been an acceptable excuse for not having a grasp of the essentials of the case when Morse was ready to hear it. Even the time Morse had been in the very building as the murder occurred and there was no way Lewis could have beaten him to the scene,* the chief inspector had made it very clear that he expected more from his sergeant. Lewis, however, wasn't Morse; he immediately regretted his harsh words.

Neither was Hathaway Lewis. He threw dismayed, apprehensive glances Lewis' way as he gave his dismally uninformative report. Though Hathaway seemed to have more of what it took to flourish in the world of modern policing than Lewis had ever had, he lacked the inner confidence that had kept Morse's criticisms from devastating Lewis. Hathaway thrived in an atmosphere of positive reinforcement—Lewis with a happy, secure childhood behind him and Val's love and belief supporting him had never fought the demons oppressing his sergeant. That didn't make him blind to his sergeant's needs; unfortunately, insight didn't always keep him from taking his bad mood out on the poor lad anyway.

The sergeant didn't have much of a report to appease Lewis. Either no one knew much or no one was saying much. The same old story, really. He shook his head and wondered why they bothered. The whole world seemed set against them doing their jobs. Always ready with a lie or an evasion, and if there was a word given it was always grudging and they were lucky if it were even a half-truth…oh, he should most definitely have taken some personal leave. Whether or not he should have spent it drinking himself to an early grave was questionable but not the fact that he should have taken it.

So, Lewis. What would it be? Go through the motions, act like he cared a whit or hand it over to someone else? Was he capable of spending tomorrow morning holding the next of kin's hand while he or she identified the body all the while swallowing down the emotions he'd lived through four years before? Whatever had made him think he could do the job and deal with that? He had to be the biggest fool he'd ever met.

"Sir?" Hathaway called to him once again. Lewis stuck his tongue in his cheek and looked the younger man up and down. What if he walked away, left it to Hathaway? The sergeant had shown himself to be capable enough…but, Lewis had known an inspector or two in his day who had given up on the job. They'd left their sergeants to cover for them, and when the case had proven too hard for young men without the experience behind them—they'd left their sergeants holding the bag, taking the blame for bungled jobs and preventable deaths and destroying their careers and lives in the process. Hathaway was a good man, a good copper, and a decent detective; Lewis wasn't about to throw all that away because he wasn't the man or inspector he needed to be. He wouldn't be dropping the whole mess in his sergeant's lap.

He fingered his mobile in his trouser pocket. He could call Innocent. Tell her…something and get them both replaced. Only Hathaway was still looking at him like a small boy expecting a walloping and Hobson was still hovering over the body and throwing speculative looks his way and—there was still tomorrow to live through.

He sighed and said, "All right, Sergeant, point us towards the man who found the body…let's see if we can't get any more out of him."

"Leave every night about this time…" the man looked pointedly at his watch and said, "…well, half ten. Supposed to be in at eleven. Boss won't be half-pleased."

"Sorry," Lewis told him. "It is a murder enquiry. I imagine your boss won't begrudge us the odd half hour. So…you backed your car out of the garage and…"

"Well, I just…saw him. Only I didn't know, did I? Just could make out something dark…thought some kids had been playing with the rubbish—kicking the bags about and such. Thought it would be better to toss them back in the bin tonight before they'd been ripped open and spread from one end to the other. I put the lights on to see better—and then I knew. Called you lot and have been waiting here ever since."

"But, you didn't recognize him?"

"No. Never seen him about. Mind, I don't know many of the neighbors. Working nights—just don't run into them much."

"Right, then. If you've given your information to the sergeant here, we'll let you get on to work. Thanks," Lewis said and strode away with Hathaway on his heels. "Let's see what the good doctor has to tell us, eh? Before she's off."

Hobson saw them coming and stood to meet them. Lewis manned up enough to meet her searching gaze.

"Anything?" he asked.

"About what it looks like." She handed him an evidence bag enclosing a bloodied rock. He took it carefully from her, but she shook her head. "I don't think we'll find much on it…besides the obvious, of course. I'd say he's only been dead an hour or two…three at the most. Not the healthiest of individuals to start with…there's evidence of several abdominal surgeries. May be able to ID him from that alone if they were done locally. He'd definitely been in some hospital or another more than once. Malnourished, probably bowel problems...about…mmm—upper fifties? Possibly younger—depending on how long he had been unwell. I'll be able to pin things down better after the PM—there's a backlog. Might not get to him until the afternoon, but I'll do my best."

"Thanks, Doctor," he told her. He shuffled his feet a bit before finally adding, "Sorry—for being a being a bit snippy earlier."

"I hadn't noticed," she told him. "See you tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow," Lewis agreed wearily.

"Well, then. Good night, boys."

"Good night, Doctor," Hathaway murmured, and Lewis nodded his head. He watched her go while he thought over whether there was anything they could accomplish working through the night. There were the missing person files they could look through, but the dead man hadn't appeared to be sleeping rough. It was doubtful he was already listed as missing. The neighbors were sleeping or trying to anyway with police lights flashing through their back windows…no, there was nothing more to be done tonight. Tomorrow—well, if he survived the night, there'd be plenty of work for tomorrow.

"Better get off home, then, Hathaway. Nothing more to do tonight."

"I could take a look—"

"Tomorrow. We'll take a look tomorrow."

"Right. Well, then…good night, Sir?"

He grunted in reply and walked off down the dark alley. Hathaway had parked on the other end, and so Lewis was alone when his assailant struck. The attacker was younger, fitter, and more prepared. Lewis disappeared into the night.

*Masonic Mysteries, Inspector Morse. Thanks to princessozmaofoz for reminding me of this great episode.

*The Settling of the Sun, Inspector Morse


	2. Part Two: Morning

_Part Two: Morning_

_He awoke to a pounding headache and a sick stomach and discovered very quickly that being ill in the dark while tied was more than a bit problematic. Fortunately, he was in a fetal position on his side and not flat out on his back. When he finished, he thrashed about in an attempt to put some distance between him and the mess he'd made. The sickly, sweet smell of whatever anesthesia he'd been given which was now working itself out of his system made things even worse. His muscles cramped and protested from their strained position and enforced immobility. With his arms tied behind him, it was his shoulders which ached the worst. But over the head and the stomach and the muscle cramping was the cold. He shook with violent shivers which drained what little strength he still had._

_He came to a rest with his back pressed up against the cold, hard metal side of…whatever he was being held in—a moving truck or trailer of some sort perhaps. A horse trailer? The floor was hard and uneven under him and beyond cold. He was in shirtsleeves only, and he'd been around long enough to know he should be thankful he hadn't been stripped and left even more vulnerable and unprotected. Thankful was not the word he would have used to describe his feelings though. Befuddled more like. Numb more than frightened; too frozen and sick to work up a healthy anger…what was going on? Who would want to take him hostage? _

_He'd been working CID for a good many years—was it really twenty-two by now? Near enough…he'd made enemies along the way. Men and women who had sworn to get him for putting them away; women who had threatened and screamed at him for putting their husbands, sons, or lovers away. But…a crime like this—who did he know capable and willing to go to all this trouble? Easier by far to have put a knife between his ribs there in the dark…where had he been? How had he gotten here? He couldn't say, couldn't bring it into focus and that's where the fear and panic took precedence over the pain, the sickness, and the cold. He shook from it even more than the chill working itself deep into his bones. _

_Val came to lie beside him, press herself tightly against him, and hold him in her arms. She ran her hands up and down his back to help warm him, and said, "It's all right, Robbie—you'll be all right." He couldn't hold onto her with his arms tied behind his back, and she slipped away as quickly as she had come. _

It wasn't until Lewis didn't report into work the morning of the nineteenth that the alarm was sounded. Even then Hathaway's concern was downplayed by a good portion of the station. The vast majority expressed surprise that the inspector wasn't to work on time, but then there would be a questioning glance at the calendar and he'd be sent on his way with a sympathetic pat on his shoulder and something like, "Not to worry, old boy. He'll be along in a day or two…best to let it sit."

Hathaway was not mollified in the least, but he couldn't help hearing the undertones. The station was under the impression that he shouldn't rock the boat. Let things lie and not attract undue attention to the empty desk across the way. He wasn't a detective for nothing, and it didn't take him long to know the date of December 19th held a weighty significance for his boss…still.

"Tomorrow," Lewis had said, and Hathaway couldn't believe that the date had sideswiped him on the way home leaving him incapable of reporting to work or at least calling in. Lewis wouldn't have left him twiddling his thumbs while they had a murder to solve.

Still, mindful of the cautions from those who had known the inspector far longer than he, he searched the missing person files and fussed around with the preliminary paper work without a word to the chief super. Then he grabbed a DC and went out to the murder scene to interview the neighbors. The days were far in the past when they would have had to conduct their business through the back door, so by the time Hathaway took a look at the alley for signs of a struggle or other clues about what might have happened to Inspector Lewis, any evidence there had long since been driven over or kicked out of the way any number of times.

_Things were even less rosy the next time he came to. The darkness, the cold, the cramping, and the sickness were all unabated and now joined by insistent demands from his bladder. He swallowed down the bile threatening to spew out of his mouth because he was pressed as far as he could be against the wall and had nowhere else to go. And he resolutely refused to wet himself. Better to lie there desperately needing a toilet than lay there wet and smelling and even colder. _

_It was morning now he thought though he couldn't have said why. It was the morning of the anniversary of his wife's death and the…hallucination he'd had of her holding him, warming him, reassuring him had left him more destitute than whoever had drugged him, tied him, and left him to freeze and wallow in his own filth._

"_Val," he whispered into the cavernous blackness surrounding him. The only answers were the sound of his teeth chattering, his trembling gasps, and the muted thumps of his body's shaking. _

_And then there was the sound of footsteps in gravel and the clang of metal and the sudden brightness of the day. He strained his eyes to look up at whoever stood in the doorway, but it was only a fuzzy silhouette against the brightness, and the effort made him even sicker. Whoever it was stood there, holding open the metal door…a trailer or a…metal shed. Uninsulated but isolated. Far from the busy life of Oxford—there were no morning sounds of traffic or children chattering on their way to school. Only silence. And something he couldn't place, something out of place in his day to day world. Whoever it was who had come to stare down at him hadn't come to visit. _

_He…it was a he, Lewis thought though his eyes refused to focus enough to take in any real details, did in the end step in to loom over Lewis. As though unhappy with his night's work, the man kicked out at Lewis, striking his chest and bent knees. Then he bent over and though Lewis hadn't been able to see it there must have been a knife for his feet and then his arms were freed. His legs stiffened and jerked with cramps and he cried out with the pain of it all. His arms though lay limp and beyond numb until his captor reached down and pulled him up by one of the useless things. He screamed then, the pain tearing through his frozen frame like shattering glass. He scrambled for his footing but his legs and feet were incapable of holding him up. It was his captor that kept him upright, pulled him out the door, and thrust him up against the side of…a shed. It was a shed. The colors faded and lost from years of sunlight and weather._

"_Do your business and be quick about it…I won't be back until nightfall," a harsh voice hissed in his ear. He would have liked to have complied and saved himself the humiliation but his hands might as well not even have belonged to him. With a disgusted exclamation, his captor kept him upright with a knee pressing him against the shed wall and grudgingly fumbled about to allow him to relieve himself. Lewis endured it all and vowed he wouldn't go through the same humiliation come nightfall. _

_Perhaps his captor felt the same for when he'd more or less tossed Lewis back down inside the shed and once again tied Lewis' feet, he left his hands free. The man bustled around a bit, trotting in and out of the shed. He threw a shovelful of dirt over the mess Lewis had made earlier. The dirt flew up into Lewis' eyes and mouth, and he lay there barely able to manage a weak cough to clear it from his throat. With a dull thud, the man slammed a Thermos against the metal floor next to Lewis' head but he didn't bother to help him manage it. It sat there like a promise, well within arm's reach but far beyond Lewis'. There was a grocery bag, only partially full, dropped next to it; and a bucket thunked into the corner. _

_Lewis closed his burning eyes against the sight of it all. Not a promise, a threat. He wouldn't be left to starve or die of thirst, but he'd wish he had before it was all over. He was there for the long haul. _

"_Keep your captors talking," was one of the precepts the training courses taught. But Lewis, his throat dry from lack of fluids and swollen with whatever the man had drugged him with and choked with the dry dust still slowly settling to the bitterly cold floor, had nothing to say to his captor. His eyes had not adjusted to the light even before the dirt…and his head hadn't cleared in the fresh air. A concussion on top of the anesthesia? There could easily have been a few, well-aimed kicks to his head while he had been out. Probably not what he needed…in either case, the pain and the lack of focus had not helped him to identify his captor. He hadn't recognized the harsh whisper or the strong build. He didn't know the man holding him, and despite the courses' teachings, he didn't want to get to know him._

_He wanted out. With whatever little bit of dignity he still had. He would not beg the man for anything. He wouldn't do it. His captor came to sniff over him one last time. Before he turned away, he kicked Lewis once just above his forehead, and with that farewell, he went out, pulled the door shut with an ominous crash, fumbled with the catch, and strode away. Lewis, biting back his pain, listened in vain to hear the sound of a vehicle starting._

The neighbors almost all being the working sort, the interviews were soon over. Hathaway stuck his head into the office hoping to find Lewis sitting at his desk scowling at the paltriness of his sergeant's morning endeavors. He was disappointed. He stood in the doorway a moment, indecisively trying to decide what, if anything, he was supposed to do. He'd spent some time under Inspector Arnold, who had never bothered to show up to work until close to lunchtime, but Lewis wasn't an Arnold.

If he was late, there'd be a note or a call enumerating what he wanted Hathaway to be doing while he was out and when he could be expected in. Lewis wasn't a micromanager, but he didn't like to waste time or effort. He liked to make sure they weren't tripping each other up both unknowingly working the same angle. Hathaway sighed and took another look around the office just in case there'd been a note he'd somehow overlooked. While he was at it, he checked his phone in case he'd missed a call. Of course, he hadn't missed a call or overlooked a message.

Discouraged, he flopped down into Lewis' chair and tried him one more time.

"Um…just me again, Sir. Thought you'd want to know I tried the neighbors—the few we could catch at home. No one heard anything around the right time—the last on the far end heard a bit of a scuffle not long after we cleared off, but nothing earlier when it would have been helpful. So...we'll try again after hours, see if we can't catch the rest of the street, but in the meantime? I'd appreciate it, Sir, if you could let me know what you have planned. Thanks," he finished the message lamely.

DI Grainger stuck his head in then. "Still not here?" he asked.

"Afraid not."

"Yes, well. You've plenty to keep you busy?"

"Actually, I'm not sure what else I can be doing at the moment. And to be perfectly honest, I'm not at all comfortable with just waiting for Inspector Lewis to show up…this is not at all like him."

Grainger moved into the room and let the door shut behind him before perching himself on the edge of Lewis' desk and saying, "Listen, James…there's times we all need a blind eye and a little patience—"

"I know what today is, Sir," Hathaway interrupted him, "but I don't believe for a moment that Inspector Lewis didn't know what day it would be when he left me last night. He was clear enough then that he planned on being in today. If he'd planned to be out…"

"The best laid plans of mice and men, Sergeant…" Grainger told him. "When Val died—Lewis took it hard. Harder than you can imagine knowing him like he is now, but…this—it's not that unexpected, James."

"It is to me. I think I'll drive over there and see—"

"No. He wouldn't want that. I'll ask Dearden to go by—or Rick Paulings, if you won't be easy until we've checked. But Robbie won't thank us for it. I can promise you that."

"As his sergeant don't you think I should be the one to go?"

"Nope. Rick and Robbie go way back…and Dearden—worked alongside Robbie and Morse on more than one case. One of them will do…and if they're both too busy, I'll swing by myself." Hathaway bowed to the older man's judgment, but if Lewis was in his flat he wasn't receiving visitors, even those from way back.

"So?" he asked Grainger.

"Leave it, James. Give him the day. Please."

"I—" Hathaway started, but Hobson's call interrupted him. Grainger who had his own case to work gave him a shaky wave and sidled out of the room.

Hobson was her usual self. "So, Sergeant, where's Lewis? He's not answering his mobile, and I've no idea how he expects me to let him know the results of the PM—but the report is in. With some rather interesting bits and pieces. I thought he was in a rush—jumped the queue and everything, and he won't even answer the phone. Send him over will you?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to do," Hathaway told her and imagined her frowning at his words. "I can come round now if you'd like?"

"Not really, but we all have to make do, don't we?" she said. "Pick me up a sandwich on the way over. Turkey and cheese on wheat, no mayo—I'm missing my lunch over this," she said and cut him off before he could reply.

"So where is he?" she demanded before he'd gotten all the way into the room.

He pursed his lips and wondered where she fell in the camp of loyal Lewis supporters. Was she safe to speak to or one of those best left in the dark until Lewis made his return? His hesitation was enough to give him away.

"Hathaway," she demanded, "where is he? He's not—he seemed fine or at least like he would be fine last night—he hasn't, has he?"

From that Hathaway gathered that Hobson was as aware as anyone what day it was. "I don't know," he admitted. "He's not come in. But he meant to—"

"Yes, he would have told me if he didn't want me to juggle the queue to move your body up the line, and he said…"

"I wanted to go over, but DI Grainger thought it would be better if someone else went—he sent Sergeant Dearden, but there was no answer at the door. None of them seem concerned, but…"

"Have you spoken to Innocent?"

"No, not yet. Do you think I should?"

She bit her lips and thought it over before she said, "Did Dearden go by the cemetery? If Lewis isn't home and he—well, he might have gone there."

"I know where it is. I'll go by. Right away, shall I?"

"Probably for the best, Sergeant. But, if he's not there… Yes. I think you should take it to Innocent. Lewis wouldn't leave it like this. He'd have taken the time if he needed it; at the least, he wouldn't have left you hanging—and don't you leave me hanging either. I want to know what you find at the cemetery, understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said and hurried out. He'd forgotten the PM report in his haste to leave, but it wouldn't be his case by the time he'd found nothing but old, withered, and dry flowers at Valerie Lewis' grave and informed Chief Superintendent Innocent that Inspector Lewis had gone AWOL.


	3. Part Three: Midday

_Part Three: Midday_

_Except for the shaking, Lewis lay still for a long time after the darkness had once again engulfed him. Feeling had finally began to return to his hands…a good thing no doubt, but incredibly painful. They burned while the rest of him still shook with the cold. The pulse that throbbed through them was the same pounding in his head. Between them and his chattering teeth he wondered that all of Oxfordshire wasn't pounding on the door yelling at him to keep it down. _

_For a matter of time, he endured. He didn't hold on, didn't struggle to keep breathing, didn't lie there thinking of escape or regrets or even how welcome death would be…he simply endured. Everything else was beyond him._

_Eventually, Val came to him, cupped his hands in her own, passed a warm hand over his aching head, and settled down beside him. He leaned into her and cried._

_She was dead he knew. Four years gone. And nothing his captor had done to him could hurt him any worse than that. Eventually, he let the feel of her fade away, and struggled until he was sitting up with his back against the ungiving cold of the wall. _

_The change in position wasn't good for his stomach, but the bucket was too far away…he swallowed and fought down the nausea. After a time, he managed to shuffle around enough to snag the Thermos. He held it between his bent legs and tried to decide if it would be worth the struggle to try to open and pour whatever it held…his throat was parched, he could barely swallow. With his hands though, it wouldn't be easy. And then, he was relatively sure he'd never keep whatever it was down. He didn't even consider feeling around for the grocery bag and whatever it might contain. Food was the last thing he needed._

_He did eventually manage the Thermos. Ice cold water that slid sip by sip down his throat to burn its way to his stomach and came back up almost immediately in a violent bout of vomiting that sent him reeling about the small shed in search of the bucket. He thoroughly mashed his lunch in the process, banged his already battered head into the wall a time or two, and ended up spewing up the water in what he could only hope was the far corner because the bucket had vanished deep into the darkness and he couldn't find it. He knelt on the hard floor with the bindings cutting into his ankles, one hand over his head against the wall to keep from falling on his face, and his lungs gasping for air. It was then, finally, that he found the strength to think 'sod this'. _

_He was surprised to realize his watch was still on his arm. After a good deal of fumbling, he managed to push the little button to illuminate its face: half twelve on the day his wife had died. Almost thirteen hours since he'd last known the time. _

_Where was the cavalry? Not here in this isolated, freezing little shed. Not out there in the quiet surrounding it. What had he seen earlier when he'd been out? Houses? Barns? Factories? Hills or buildings in the distance? Anything at all? A faded metal wall; dry, dusty dirt; the fuzzy outline of a man he didn't know. _

_What had he heard? Nothing…nothing at all. Birds, surely? The wind? Motorway traffic in the distance? Something…the man's harsh voice, the pounding of his pulse in his head, his chattering teeth, and…yes, maybe…motorway traffic in the distance. And…horses. The sound of horse hoofs galloping over the hardened dirt…morning gallops? In Oxford? Had there been the chatter of the lads as they'd thundered by? Or had it just been the blood rushing in his veins…morning gallops in Oxford? Wouldn't be in Oxford, would it? Newbury? Windsor? Cheltenham? Could be anywhere…why not Ascot while he was at it? Or the Downs? Doncaster or even home…his dad had taken him once._

_He'd been just a wee tyke, not knee-high to a grasshopper…him and his brothers. His sister? She must have been off somewhere with her friends. She'd always been going off somewhere or another. Whereas he…he was trying to think about racing. Not the dogs at Oxford. The horses. In Oxford? No. He lowered himself to sit against the metal wall. Rubbed his hands over his bound ankles and tried to think what horses had to do with the cords biting into them…horses tall and majestic parading around the ring; his dad's clear voice ringing out, "Now, none of that, me lads…stay off to the sides and keep your hands in your pockets, eh? Wouldn't want one of these beasts to mistake your fingers for a carrot, now, would we?" And his hand itching to reach out and touch one of the wonderful creatures…the black one with the silver mane—had he disobeyed? Had he failed to keep his hands in his pockets? Is that why they ached now, stung and burned and pulsed until he wanted to cry from it?_

_His little brother had cried when the horses thundered past. But not him. He'd pressed as close to the fence as his dad's reach would allow and watched the horses flash by, the bright colors of the jockeys streaking past like undulating rainbows. He'd wanted to be one of them so badly it had hurt. For that brief moment, he'd been ready to give up his dreams of cricket and coppering for a chance to flash around the track on the back of one of those thundering beasts…and then they'd all gone down with a crash, there'd been yelling and horses squealing and his Dad pulling him back from the rails and burying his head into his coat. He'd twisted around to see…men dragging themselves up from the pile, attendants running forward, blood, and the great black horse with the silver mane squealing and trying to right himself, a jockey in green and white standing at his side with blood seeping from his forehead and mixing with the tears running down his face…or was that what he'd imagined, later, safe at home remembering that day at the races? He couldn't really have seen it, could he? The man crying by the downed horse? And why did it matter?_

_He'd never been on a horse. His dad had never taken them back to the races, he and Val had never had the money to go to the races when they'd been young and carefree before the kids…and he'd had neither time, money, nor desire to take his own children to see the horses. So why were they galloping around his mind in an endless circle? He lay his aching head down on his knees and drifted away._

Chief Superintendent Innocent wasn't sure whether she should be more worried about her absent inspector or upset that his sergeant hadn't seen fit to mention his absence before noon. Lewis was…well, Lewis. He had years of exemplary service behind him, put in more hours than she had the right to ask, and no doubt deserved a bit of leeway as far as a personal day taken here or there…though not without a word and not with a murder waiting to be cleared. More than likely he'd come up with something during the night and hadn't expected it to take so long to track down—though it was unlike him not to let Hathaway know, and…well, he was a careful man, a follower of procedure in such matters. If he were out on CID business he would have let the duty sergeant know his whereabouts. On the other hand, his record notwithstanding, he'd proven himself to be a bit of a maverick during her time in Oxford. Running off without a by-your-leave would not be beyond him.

And, even though the station took care of its own, and as far as Robbie Lewis was concerned she was an interloper not trusted with its innermost secrets…well, his file was ominously silent for the two years following his wife's death and she wasn't a fool. The man went missing on the anniversary of his wife's death—it was hard to believe the two events weren't connected. Best, surely, to turn a blind eye and hope he was back tomorrow with a thrumming headache and a cockamamie excuse.

As for Hathaway…well, any other officer and she wouldn't have been informed at all. The station did look after its own, and she didn't expect to be informed about every minute detail of her officers' work hours. On any given day, she probably had at least one inspector or sergeant AWOL for an hour or two or even more. Doctor and dentist appointments, a bit of dry cleaning to pick up, an errand for the wife…the work got done and if she wasn't the wiser, their fellow officers weren't likely to see the need to inform her.

Hathaway though was as much an interloper as she was herself. The station didn't see him as its own, and he'd always shown her more loyalty than he had it. It might actually be a good sign he'd sided with the station in keeping Lewis' absence quiet. He'd sought out the counsel of the old timers before his worry had brought him hesitantly to her door. If he were ever going to fit in and truly become a part of the Oxfordshire CID, that's the way it was going to have to be. It would do him no good to always be the outsider, to always be seen as her golden boy instead of one of the lads. So, not a pleasant experience cutting the apron strings, but a necessary one.

"Well, then. Inspector Lewis is certainly old enough and capable enough to look after himself. I don't think we need to be too concerned that something untoward has taken place—"

"But, I'm not the only one concerned here. Dr. Hobson—" the sergeant's protest died away under her scowl. She did not like being interrupted.

"I think you can expect Inspector Lewis to be here tomorrow, perhaps not at his best, but…under the circumstances, I think we can cut him some slack, don't you?"

"Well, yes. But…"

She sighed and shook her head in frustration but relented enough to ask, "Dr. Hobson?"

"Yes. She knows him as well as anyone else, and she's as concerned as I am. This isn't like him. No matter what they say about after his wife died. That was years ago…this is now. Inspector Lewis would never go walk about in the middle of an investigation without making sure everything was covered. Something's wrong. I know it."

She frowned at his insistence and felt for the first time a small premonition of worry for her absent inspector take the place of the irritation and sympathy she'd been feeling for him. CID officers did have their share of enemies…

"All right. We won't just assume he's drinking himself blind then. But, we won't jump the gun here either, do you understand? It would do him little good if word got out…but, locate his car, talk to his daughter, try to get a trace on his mobile—see what you can find out. Quietly. Don't stir things up. I still think you'd be better off worrying about solving your murder case, but…I'll pass it to DI Paulings. If Lewis can't be bothered to show up at work, he can't expect his investigation to not be handed off to someone else."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am," Hathaway murmured and hurried off. Lewis' car, as Dearden had already reported, was parked in front of Lewis' place. Unscratched and in its proper spot. His daughter, as Hathaway already knew from a phone call he'd placed hours earlier, had no idea what her dad was up to. She'd intended to touch base with him that evening after work, but like her father, she'd chosen to spend the day working instead of wallowing in her loss. He'd already run the trace on the mobile, as well…a total washout that. But, there were other avenues to explore…


	4. Part Four: Afternoon

_Part Four: Afternoon_

First, Hathaway revisited the neighbor at the far end of the alley. She'd heard odd sounds in the night, someone calling out as though surprised, mumbled voices—or maybe just one, scuffling sounds, the slamming of car doors, and silence in the wake of a car driving off fast. There'd still been policemen just up the way, and she'd assumed it was some of them doing who knew what in the course of their work. Prying for details, the sergeant was able to get her to narrow the time down. He strode up and down the track, looking for clues, for something that would tell him what had happened on this end of the alley while he'd sauntered down the other without a care.

In the shelter of a line of rubbish bins, someone had stood for a time. His shoes kicking about the loose gravel and leaving an area of hard, smooth dirt. No helpful cigarette butts, but then, it had been night, and he would have needed the cover of darkness as he waited. If he'd waited. Hathaway knew he had found nothing worth taking to Innocent.

But there it was, tossed (or knocked away in a struggle?) and blown across the road to catch along the back fence of the house on that corner…a folded handkerchief, the faint, sickly sweet whiff of anaesthetic still lingering in its folds. And a drop or two of blood where perhaps it had been held too tightly against the mouth of a struggling man? Proof of an abduction or just the everyday debris of civilization—someone on the way home from the dentist perhaps? Only if you believed in coincidences. The sergeant's time in the CID had made him suspicious; his governor was missing and he had quit believing in fairy tales a long time before.

Using care, he placed the handkerchief (white, plain, no helpful initials) into an evidence bag and dropped it off with forensics after a hurried call to Innocent. She'd been reluctant to ask forensics to attempt a cross-match with Lewis' blood or DNA.

"Too soon for that. Let's not overreact now, shall we? There'll be time for that after they've confirmed or disproven the presence of anaesthetic." Right. Except it was almost fourteen hours after the struggle (if there had been a struggle) in the alley…what did that translate into if a CID inspector had been taken hostage? Or if he'd been taken in retribution for a job too well done—or not well enough according to someone?

He stopped by the mortuary so as not to leave Dr. Hobson hanging and to pick her brains. She was as alarmed by his report as he was.

"But, why? What's the purpose of dragging him off? Much easier to kill him there and leave the body where it fell…" she faltered to a stop, and then swallowing, looked away from Hathaway. Whatever the reason Lewis had been taken alive (if he had), neither of them were arguing for the alternative.

"They wanted him to pay for whatever it is…they don't intend to kill him until they're done with him?" Hathaway suggested, voicing a thought he'd been trying to ignore since he'd smelled the chemical and saw the blood on the handkerchief.

"Or they want to stop him from doing something now. He hasn't any court appearances coming up has he?"

"Nothing that I know of. I'll check, but if it warranted this—I think I would have known."

"The killer? Something he thought Lewis would recognize or know that another officer would overlook?"

"I can't think what. Lewis certainly didn't give any indication there was anything bothering him at the scene—well, about the murder anyway. He was…distracted—"

"Because of Val. Not because of the investigation. Right?"

Hathaway shrugged. "He came to the scene that way at any rate. But it didn't have to be his wife, did it? Maybe he'd had a call or maybe he was onto something?"

They looked hopelessly at one another. It was useless really, this guessing and surmising with nothing to go on except their unspoken certainty that something dreadful had happened to Lewis.

Lyn Lewis called after her shift had ended and her father hadn't answered her calls. Hathaway wasn't certain what to say to the inspector's daughter. He'd met her once, a quick 'hello, good to meet you' when she'd come by the station to get her dad on one of her infrequent visits home. He pictured the look on Lewis' face when he'd looked up from his paperwork and spotted her there in the doorway. She might not have come home often, but she still held a very big place in her father's life.

But. What did she know of those years immediately following her mother's death? More than Hathaway or even less? Could he tell her most of her dad's colleagues assumed he was keeping the demons at bay with a bottle? Would that be kinder than telling her he himself was very much afraid it was something much worse than that keeping her dad from picking up her calls?

If he had been convinced otherwise, he might have, with a guilty conscience and resentful unease, downplayed her concerns with a lie…but, with a growing certainty that a missed call or two was the least of her problems and that sooner or later he might be called upon to break some very distressing news to her…he wasn't about to lie and make that eventually even harder.

"I'm afraid I'm still looking for him myself," he admitted to her. There was an expectant silence from her end, but he was incapable of filling it.

"He never did show then? Today at work? I know he planned to."

"Yes, I thought so, too, but no, he never did come in."

"Or call?" there was a weight to her voice now, an alarm ringing deep down though not yet fully acknowledged.

"Or call," he verified. "He didn't…leave you a message or—?"

"No. And he would have done. You and me both. He'd not have left either of us hanging. He called in to work the morning after…mum died. If he managed it then…he'd not leave it now. Never. What are—what have you done about it so far? Have you been to his flat? Maybe he's—"

"Sergeant Dearden went by. Couldn't raise him. Is there—would he have left the key with a neighbor or…?"

"There should be one there at work. Bottom drawer most like…Mum tended to lock herself out and Ken and I—it was easier for Dad to have a spare at the office than to have to wonder if we'd get his back to him before he needed it."

"Right. I'll see if I can find it then; check the flat, make sure he's not—and call you back. Is there anywhere you can think of he might have…?"

"No. We used to have family everywhere you looked, but there's not many now and I don't think Dad…and certainly not when he was expected in at work and nowhere he wouldn't have a signal. As far as friends…they're there at work, aren't they? Family and work—he's never had time for anything else. Maybe I'll call my brother…if something happened—if Ken needed him—he'd go, wouldn't he? But, one or the other of them would let me know—I'm sure of it. Still…I'll see if I can raise him anyway."

"Right…I'll call you back in say, half an hour?" Hobson had hovered close by as he talked to Lyn, not even pretending to finish the paperwork sitting on the desk with the uneaten sandwich he'd brought her earlier.

When he hung up, she grabbed her coat and said, "I'm coming with you…the office and then his flat?" He didn't argue with her. The key was there, in a plastic sleeve taped to the inside edge of Lewis' bottom drawer. But, when they'd gone around to his flat and used the key, the apartment was as empty as they'd known all along it was going to be.

There were no signs of a struggle. And no note. No 'Sorry, I can't take it anymore, Love Dad' left carefully propped on the shelf by the picture of the inspector and his late wife. No ransom demands, nothing at all to indicate Lewis hadn't stacked his supper dishes from the night before, grabbed his jacket from the closet, and locked the door behind him on the way to the murder scene with every intention of returning.

There were no breakfast dishes, no late night bottle of beer to indicate he'd come home and attempted to unwind before going to bed…the bed itself made, his passport tucked neatly in his bedside drawer, the clothes he'd worn the evening before—as absent as he was. Hathaway dialed Lewis' number in the off chance the mobile was in the flat…no success. The sergeant was not surprised. Lewis had had his phone the evening before. Hathaway was certain the inspector had never made it home with it.

While he told the inspector's daughter the bad news, he paced about Lewis' empty flat, carefully avoiding running into Hobson making her own tense, anxious way once more through the apartment. As though, they'd lost a set of keys and having exhausted every possibility of locating them were still compelled to look one more time. Lyn had caught her brother sleeping and totally clueless as to where their father might be. So…

"Should I come do you think?" she asked him in a hushed voice. "Will it come to that?" Hathaway didn't know. He couldn't begin to guess what had happened or where it would end. And he was afraid to try.

Forensics had caught his urgency, and they had the preliminary results before Lyn boarded her train. Innocent heaved an unhappy sigh and called them back herself. Top priority: did the blood and saliva on that handkerchief match that of her missing inspector?

"All right, Hathaway. In the meantime, while we're waiting on the results, we'll assume the worst. Happy now?"

"No, ma'am," he answered though from her scowl he realized he should have assumed her question was rhetorical. Still, he was far from happy. He had no idea where to take the search from here and forensics' confirmation that the handkerchief had been soaked in a particularly nasty anaesthetic easily capable of knocking out a grown man for a good long time could not in any way, shape, or form be taken as good news.

"So, where are we at?"

"Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere."

"I think, Sergeant, if you want to remain in charge of this investigation you will have to do better than that," she told him. In charge of the investigation…was he ready for that? With Lewis' life maybe hanging in the balance? She apparently thought so. Seeing the surprise on his face, she said, "You're the one who thought from the beginning there was more to Lewis' absence than an unapproved personal day…you work with him, drink with him, seem to get on with him—you've Dr. Hobson and his daughter in your back pocket." She shrugged. "So. What next?"

"I want someone going through the books. Looking at his old cases and this latest."

"You think they are tied together?"

"I think the killing was nothing but a trap. Someone knew Lewis's name was on the rotation, knew he'd be called to the scene—would come, almost undoubtedly, from the east and park on that end of the alley. They killed our man and waited…"

"Speak to DI Paulings. Let him know what you're thinking. Your victim could have been just a random man picked off the streets. In that case, it will do us little good. On the other hand, the killer might have decided to kill two birds with one stone."

"I sincerely hope not, ma'am," Hathaway said, and Innocent wished she'd chosen her words more wisely.

"Sorry. I do, too…still, he might have had a motive for picking this particular victim. It's worth mentioning to Rick at any rate."

"So, I can take the men I need to scour the books?"

"Yes. Through the night if need be. I want him found as much as you do, James."

"Yes, ma'am."

"What else?"

"I can't think," he said shaking his head sadly over his inability to know how best to proceed. "Well, there's his car. He drove it to the crime scene last night, but it was at his flat this morning. We need it gone over."

"Authorize it then. A media appeal?"

"He wouldn't like that, would he? And then there's the usual question…does it do more harm than good putting pressure on the perpetrator? I think we should leave it for now. The thing that's bothering me…the thing—well, did the killer know what today means to Lewis? If he did—it might be someone close, someone who feels—I don't know, like Lewis could have kept his wife from being killed, that somehow he is responsible for her death. Lewis doesn't believe in coincidences…"

"It's possible. But it's also possible…that it's someone who knows Lewis' history enough to use it against him. He could be taking advantage of the situation without being personally involved in it."

"Still, I want access to phone records. Lewis' and…his son's."

"His son's," the chief superintendent echoed him quietly. She closed her eyes and then opened them to glance at the picture of her own sons on her desk. "You don't really think?"

"No, I don't…but Lyn spoke to him today. We should be able to rule him out at least. He certainly wasn't here abducting his dad last night if he was really in Sydney when she spoke to him."

Innocent sighed again. "Better men than Lewis have raised killers unawares. International records. I'll see to it. Anything else?"

"If you're right, ma'am…it will be one of ours, won't it? Lyn said her dad never had time for anything but work and family…"

"He's been on the job longer than most…and put away more men than just about anybody. Work doesn't have to be colleagues, Hathaway."

"But, the knowing—the rotation and…the drink, the day—"

"We can't rule it out, but…Lewis is one of the good guys. There are men here that are far more likely targets if someone's gone rogue. I'm for the date being coincidental…" She gave him a sad smile and nodded her head. "I know. If only it were that easy. Get out there and find my missing inspector, will you? Mr. Innocent has a big do in London this evening. I'm supposed to be there, but…well, serves him right, doesn't it? All the times he's stood me up when the shoe was on the other foot—making me drag poor Lewis from one thing to another."

Hathaway appreciated her stab at humour, but it didn't cheer him up. He hurried out to brief the troops. He wanted to be able to tell Lyn he was doing everything possible to find her dad when she arrived.


	5. Part Five: Evening

_Part Five: Evening_

_He did eventually paw through the grocery bag. Not because he was hungry; he'd yet to keep any water down, but because he needed to know what he had. A couple of soggy sandwiches—tuna from the smell of it though he did his best not to know; a banana, and a packet of crisps. Nothing helpful then. Not that he'd expected it, but even a butter knife would have been something. Or a tin with a pull-tab lid. Something to defend himself with, saw through his ankle bindings, scratch at the walls…something._

_He painfully scooted his way around the walls of the building, mindful of the far corner, looking for…he didn't know what. There were no windows, the door latched tight and secure from the outside, he wouldn't be making a prison escape while his captor was off doing who knew what. He'd have to take the man. Somehow._

_The thought was almost laughable. He could barely sit. Yet, he'd have to find the strength to stand, to barrel into the man when he opened the door—take him down, take him out one way or another, get away, find help…_

_He heard them then. The horses again. Evening gallops? A long way off whatever it was. He tried to raise his voice and call for help, but…that wasn't happening. He took the thermos and beat it savagely against the metal wall. The horses didn't slow and there were no welcome shouts of 'what's that…anybody there?' After a few moments there was only silence and his own ragged breathing. If it were evening gallops…it wouldn't be long then before night fell and his assailant returned._

_He wasn't anywhere near ready: there were the bindings on his ankles, the insurmountable-seeming climb to his feet, the readying for a physical struggle he wasn't at all up to. And what if there was more than one of them? Just because there'd only been the one earlier…had there been two in the alley the night before? The alley…a dead man, Hathaway and Hobson, something coming at him in the dark, the overpowering sweet smell clamped against his nose and mouth…_

_Well, at least he knew now how he'd come to end up hog-tied and locked up in this shed. One man he thought, though he couldn't be certain. One man was much more doable than two. Only he had so little time and so much still to do._

_The thermos had proven ineffective in raising the alarm, but it just might work to snap his ankle bindings—if he could stand it. Force its angled, inner lid between his ankles, twist it with the bindings, weakening them, and maybe, if he didn't pass out from it all, eventually stretch them to their breaking point. He thought for a while it would be his ankles that gave way first. The thermos grew slippery with his blood where the binding cut deeply into his skin, but in the end, there was an audible pop and his feet were free. Not that he was in any condition to stand…there was the whole numbness-burning-into-aching-flesh thing to withstand though he had no time for it. _

_He fought to get his knees beneath him, took a moment to swish a mouthful of water around though he didn't dare swallow it, and then with a groan that sounded very much like a sob, he managed to get himself upright. He clung to the wall terrified his hands would slip and he'd land back on the floor and have to start the whole process all over again. _

_Val came and helped hold him up. "You can do it, Robbie," she said. "You can do anything."_

"_No, Lass," he told her. "I can't survive losing you. I've been trying, but…"_

_To his surprise she laughed at him. "Silly man," she said. "You are really going to have to forgive me for that sometime, you know."_

"_What?" he asked. He was still gasping for air, still fighting to remain upright, and her laughter and words confused him. _

"_I didn't go to London to get myself killed, Robbie. I didn't mean to leave you, you can be sure of that."_

"_I didn't—I never…" he protested, but she was gone and he was only talking to himself._

The record search was slow even with half the station pouring through the old record books. It would take time for forensics to be able to say much definitively on the DNA match, but the blood and the preliminaries—well, he'd known the minute he'd caught sight of that handkerchief blown against the fence.

Lewis' car was clean. Too clean. Someone having taken the time to wipe it down and vacuum it out until there was hardly any trace of Lewis in it, let alone anyone else. That trace of Lewis though—a small smear of blood between the cushions of the back seat. Not what they were hoping to find. Oddly enough, there was also horse hair caught between those cushions along with that smear of Lewis' blood.

Innocent had pushed the phone records request through, and it was the one bright spot of the day. Lewis' son was in Sydney. Or the last Hathaway had heard anyway. Ken had been leaning toward grabbing the first plane home at that time—he might already be on the way. As for Lewis' records, if he'd received a mysterious phone call that had tipped him off and necessitated his disappearance, it wasn't readily evident.

After traipsing through half a dozen hospitals, DI Paulings' investigation had identified the dead man from the alley. Joseph Aldrich, a small-time jockey who had almost made it into the big time before giving it up in the distant past and a chronic sufferer of Crohn's disease in recent years. His last known residence was in Newbury, but he'd apparently been dossing down with a cousin in Oxford. The cousin was a link they'd been looking for. He was a cleaner, contracted out to the Oxfordshire police constabularies. Each having a dispatch office with call lists posted prominently here and there and everywhere. A quick word with the cousin proved telling—Aldrich had been in the habit of stopping by for a late-night chat on his cousin's break. He would have had easy enough access to the call lists.

Hathaway and Innocent exchanged relieved looks after that bit of news.

"Not one of us after all, then," Innocent said.

"There might really be coincidences after all," Hathaway conceded.

Hobson, ready to head out to the station to fetch Lyn to her father's empty flat, frowned and said, "It's the horse connection that bothers me." Both the chief superintendent and the sergeant turned questioning looks her way. "The horse hair in Lewis' car, and in Aldrich's head wounds…and him being a jockey in his younger years?"

"Horse hairs in the head wounds?" Hathaway asked before he remembered he had never seen her PM report on Aldrich. He'd left that to Paulings.

"Two, and one on the murder weapon, as well…"

"Horses?" Innocent asked with a puzzled look on her face. "A country estate?"

"Aldrich was a race jockey in years gone by…he lived in Newbury, and probably raced there in his younger days," Hathaway said.

Innocent stared at him soberly. "What?" he asked.

"This sounds…incredibly egocentric and paranoid, I know but…that do of my husband's this evening?"

"Don't tell me…"

"In conjunction with the Jockey Club. I don't know the details, but what if…," she paused and looked miserably guilty before she went on. "What if Lewis wasn't targeted because his absence could have easily been written off today but because he's conscientious enough that his absence should have been so conspicuous as to send off warning bells all over the Thames Valley?"

"They took him to stop _you_ from going to this happening?" Hathaway asked. "What would that gain them?"

"I don't know," Innocent, pale and stricken, told him.

"Someone's going to be there tonight," he theorized. "Someone you'd know, someone who didn't want you recognizing them. They couldn't get to you…they got to your man instead. They knew you wouldn't leave with one of your inspectors missing—What time it this thing?"

Innocent glanced at her watch before answering. "Starts in just under an hour," she said. She rose and began to gather her keys and coat. "You keep on things from this end. I'll get there as fast as I can…see if there's anything to this madness. I can't really believe it, can you?"

Hathaway's answer was indirect but telling. "I think," he said, "it should have been your old case files we went tearing through instead of Lewis'."

Innocent looked at him beseechingly. "Get to him, Hathaway. Don't let something happen to him on my account…"

"Of course not," Hobson assured her with a confidence that belied her own white face and wide eyes. "You just get to London and deal with things on that end…James will see to Robbie."

Innocent bustled off calling for the fastest constable and the fastest available car as she went. It was only when the chief super was safely away that Hobson sat down weakly and looked up at Hathaway.

"He's dead already, isn't he?" she asked, and Hathaway who'd been thinking along those same lines couldn't meet her eyes.

_After Val left him, he stayed there, fighting to remain upright, fighting to find some inner strength to tap into. Finally, he tried a few, faltering steps…he was more unsteady than ever; the dark, the head, the numb feet and burning, bleeding ankles—concussed, dehydrated…what was he thinking? That he could take a man in his state? He wasn't a fighter, had never been. Even if he were, there would be no flying tackles from him to bring the man down—he almost couldn't stagger a step. The thermos…could he bring it down hard and fast against a man's skull? With his hands still feeling more like disconnected claws than useful, functioning body parts? It didn't seem likely. The only thing he could reliably consider himself capable of doing was falling over on the man…well, that and vomiting on him. Hardly moves likely to see him free of his prison._

_What then? He had a five-gallon bucket, a thermos, two soggy sandwiches, a banana, and a packet of crisps...and he was no MacGyver. Think, Lewis, think. _

_He had the kids and his sergeant. He had a worthwhile job that he was good at even if he did find it depressing at times…a fair number of friends back at the station. A not-so bad car, the flat. Memories of Val that would die with him, those of Morse…was any of it enough to see him through? He wasn't sure._

_But, he'd know soon enough, for there was the sound of footsteps in gravel and the clang of metal and the sudden brightness of a torch and the glint of something metallic—a gun, a knife?—he couldn't see. He'd forgotten the fuzzy vision in the dark, but that was one more thing that should have gone on the list._

_It was the thermos that should have been at the top of that list, he soon discovered. He might not have had the strength to bring it down on the man's skull enough to stun him, but he managed to bring it down on the torch. It flew out of the man's hand and hit with a loud bang against the back wall. _

_His assailant wasn't pleased with developments. He swore loudly, kicked out at Lewis, and made a grab for the torch. His angry voice boomed deafeningly in Lewis' ears after a day of almost oppressive silence and on top of the concussion, but it was singularly ineffective as a weapon. The kick could have easily brought Lewis to his knees or flat on his back, but in the dark and with the man already moving towards the torch, it missed its target completely. _

_The man scrambled after the torch and Lewis…took two wobbly steps and was out of the door. Too late his captor realized his mistake but Lewis swung the door shut before the man hurtled himself against it with all his might. Lewis dug his protesting feet into the dirt and let his weight press against the door. _

_His former captor stormed against it, battered against the walls, and cursed loudly while Lewis gasped and shivered in the cool, evening air. After a little while, he straightened and examined the latch. It had been secure enough against him, but he'd been drugged and battered…still, it looked like it would hold. Lewis needed somewhere warm and a phone. Everything else he reckoned would keep. _

_After the blackness of the closed shed, the night's darkness was soft and far from impenetrable. He could make out the path rounding the shed. He staggered down it hoping there was no one else out there waiting to grab him—he'd dropped the Thermos and was left without any protection whatsoever. Around the corner, he discovered he could see the moving lights of cars on a motor way across a dark expanse of open fields, the shadowy shapes of a house just a little way down the lane and a car even closer. A little way down the lane was a great deal too far for him to hobble; he chose the car. Even that almost proved too much, but he reached it eventually._

_He tried the handle. He thought it would be all too easy if it was unlocked and didn't expect it to open. With his hands just this side of useless, it didn't the first time he gave it a try. He tried again because he couldn't quite get his head around the fact that he was going to have to make that trip to the house after all. And it opened. It really was that easy. He fell into the vehicle…found the keys in the ignition, pulled the door closed behind him, locked it, started the engine, cranked the heat up full blast and sat there shaking and shivering as the hot air vainly tried to undo hours and hours' worth of chill. _

_At some point, he thought to have a look around and discovered a mobile under the driver's seat. _

_He stared dumbly at it a moment, wondering how it had come to be there before remembering how he had come to be there and that there wasn't altogether the best place to be and perhaps he could use the phone and get to somewhere better. It took him three tries before his swollen, numb fingers got the buttons right._

Hathaway's mobile rang, and he was glad to have something to look at besides the doctor's white face. He didn't recognize the name that flashed on the screen, and he stared at it almost fearfully. He'd been hoping to hear from Inspector Lewis all day, and failing that to have word of him. But now, with Hobson's 'He's dead already, isn't he?' echoing through Innocent's office giving voice to his own fears along with hers, he was afraid to answer the unfamiliar number and find he'd gotten his wish. What would it be?Ransom demands, threats, a harsh voice telling him where he could find the body?

Hobson came to look over his shoulder, and it was her 'Answer it, Sergeant!' that spurred him to action.

"Hathaway."

"Yeah," the voice rasped out, weak and harsh and unmistakably Lewis. Not dead after all. Hathaway threw a foolish looking grin of relief at Hobson as Lewis asked, "Come to get me, won't you?"

"Where are you, Sir?"

"No idea…but find out and come get us."

"Robbie!" Hobson shouted into the mobile as she pulled it from Hathaway's hand. "What's happened? Are you okay?" Hathaway, busily trying to get a trace on the call, couldn't make out the inspector's feeble answer, but there'd be time for that later. After they found him and brought him home.


	6. Part Six: The Day After

_Part Six: The Day After_

It was the Newbury police that reached him first, of course. There'd been a trip to casualty and an overnight stay in the community hospital before they were finally able to bring him home. He slept the trip through and decided it would be too far to trek down the hall to his bed. Hathaway settled him onto his sofa. Lyn sweet-talked him into drinking a cup of tea and sipping some beef broth, they covered him with three of his heaviest blankets, and then they let him drift back off again. He needed the rest, and there wasn't much they could do to keep him awake anyway.

Chief Superintendent Innocent eased her way into the flat a short time later.

"How is he? Really?" she asked looking down at her newly-found inspector huddled deep within the pile of blankets and snoring softly.

"He'll be all right," Hobson assured her. "Probably wouldn't have hurt if he'd stayed in hospital another day or two…but he wanted to be home. And there are plenty of us to keep an eye on him."

"I'm staying through the weekend anyway," Lyn told her.

"Ken decided not to come?"

Lyn shook her head. "He said he'd wait until Dad was up for a visit…" There was a certain degree of doubt in her words which made the others think it best to not pursue the topic any further.

"So?" Hathaway asked Innocent. "What was it all about?"

"You were right. We should have been looking in my case files, not his. Jason Stroham…a con man from my sergeant days, way back when. My inspector at the time and Stroham had it in for one another. Stroham led us a merry chase, but, in the end, we got him. Fast forward eleven years, and he's out, using an alias, working the same old tricks on wealthy business men, a good many of them owning a race horse or two, and the Jockey Club. Two weeks before the deal's in play, he discovers that there's a chief superintendent on the guest list; after a little digging he finds out it's even worse—I could easily identify him. He couldn't just take me out. Not without losing my husband's funding and possibly his company's as well…"

"So, he went looking for another way—my dad."

"I'm afraid so."

"You got him though?"

"Oh, yes. Made quite an impression at the dinner in the process. Mr. Innocent might never live it down…" She looked rather pleased at this last bit of information. The others smiled with her.

"Dad will be glad for that then," Lyn said. "That you caught Stroham, I mean."

"Lewis did a good job on Jason's accomplice himself. I just wish…well, I'm glad you were there, James. Good instincts." On that note, Innocent headed off.

"She's right," Lyn said after the chief superintendent had gone. "I'm glad you were there for Dad, too."

"It wasn't me," Hathaway said. "It was Lewis…he saved himself."

"Then for all of us…" Hobson said, and Lyn nodded her agreement.

Hathaway frowned at them both, shook his head, and decided it was an argument he didn't want to pursue. He went instead into the kitchen to rummage around and see what he could find for lunch. His cooking skills having grown a bit rusty and Lewis' kitchen not being all that well-stocked, the prospects didn't look good. A store-run was in order. He persuaded Hobson to join him, and they left Lyn washing up her dad's dirty dishes from the night of the murder.

_It was probably the quiet that woke Lewis. He'd slept easily through their comings and goings and earlier conversations, but the quiet…he stirred uncomfortably on the sofa and was only too glad to open his eyes and find himself at home. He licked his lips, stifled a moan, and pulled himself up to sit and look around him. _

_He'd never particularly felt at home in the flat. He'd thought often that he shouldn't have been so hasty in selling off the home he'd shared with Val. At the time, it had seemed the only thing to do, a desperate attempt to keep from wallowing in the despair of his loss…or had she been right? Had he been in a hurry to rid himself of their home because he'd been angry at her…what was it Morse had said about McNutt? He'd felt betrayed by his wife when she had died. _

_Had Lewis felt the same? Had he blamed Val for leaving him devastated and alone? Had he blamed her for his loss, for not surviving? He carefully rose and made his way over to her picture on the shelf…their picture on the shelf. Laughing in the sun on their holidays the year she'd died. He'd been lucky to have her, lucky to have the years with her, the kids, the memories…they'd had a good run. Had he blamed her for bringing it to an end?_

_Well, he must have wondered about it anyway, deep down there somewhere. Because she'd never been in the shed, never warmed him in her arms or helped him stay upright as he fought to keep from crashing to the floor. It had only been his mind's attempt at keeping him going that put her there. He'd known it even then. It had been him telling himself to forgive her for leaving him there alone in the dark and cold without even the hope of seeing her again. _

_Well, if he had been angry, and he couldn't say that he had, he wasn't any longer. She'd never have willingly left him to struggle on alone, and he knew that as surely as he knew Hathaway, Hobson, Lyn, Innocent, and the others wouldn't have left him to die alone in that shed. _

"_I love you, Lass," he whispered to her even though he knew she couldn't hear him. She was four years gone, but the words were just as true as if she'd still been standing at his side._

Author's Note: This was sparked, no doubt, by WhyAye's _Bloody Shakespeare_ with its poignant scene when DI Rebus asks Lewis if he has any regrets. "No," he says… "She was bloody marvelous, and I had the good sense to appreciate it." Throw in many, many enjoyable hours reading Dick Francis with his hero trapped in the tack room, the horse trailer, the ship's cabin, or some other tight and uncomfortable locked room and only himself to ride to the rescue and somewhere horses thundering by in a wild flurry of majesty and power. Bring it all to a boil in the cold, dark days of December, and I guess this is what you get. Thanks to WhyAye and in memory of Dick Francis, who wrote the way I wish I could.


End file.
